


Phalaenopsis Equestris Alba

by Sitamun



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Footnotes, M/M, Post-Canon, aziraphale - Freeform, crowley - Freeform, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:40:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23684773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sitamun/pseuds/Sitamun
Summary: A gift of an orchid expresses admiration for the beauty of the recipient. The orchid also stands for longing, passion and fertility, which is why it is a popular gift, especially among lovers.Although the orchid is available in a wide variety of colours, the meaning remains the same. Only the white orchid has an extended symbolism. It stands for purity and conveys a special elegance and grace.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 8





	Phalaenopsis Equestris Alba

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jessiekins05](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jessiekins05/gifts).



* * *

  
_A gift of an orchid expresses **admiration for the beauty** of the recipient. The orchid also stands for longing, passion and fertility, which is why it is a popular gift, especially among lovers._  
  
  


~~  
  
~~  
  
“Angel.”  
Probably only a demon can make a single word, let alone a name, sound like a question and an accusation at the same time, Aziraphale thinks, but doesn’t make the effort to turn around and look at said demon. From the tone alone he can already tell every facial expression, his body posture, his exact position in the room behind him.  
But he guesses that anyone would be able to be this precise eventually when you know someone for 6000+ years. Plus, because Aziraphale is sure that whatever is between them[1] was not born on Earth.  
He doesn’t remember, his head is literally full of clouds when he only tries to think of a face from before the Fall, as it is for any other angel. Most likely God’s idea, not one of her best if he is honest with himself, and after 6000 years Aziraphale still wasn’t able to figure out Her reasoning behind this choice. Probably to prevent the angels left behind in Heaven to rush after their other Fallen halves, because that is what Aziraphale would have done.  
Even if said other half is about to let a lecture follow this strange question-accusation-name. The angel smiles and continues to work silently on his little project. It was meant as a surprise, a gift for his love, but there is no way he can let it disappear now without the demon noticing. And then there would be questions he had to answer honestly. He is in angel, he can’t lie to him.  
“Aziraphale”, Crowley says, leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, one ankle in front of the other, a ‘cool’ pose, as the youth calls it these days, this time more a question than an accusation. It’s as if Aziraphale could _hear_ the minimal reduced lung volume because the crossed arms lessen it by a fraction of a nanolitre, although the very same lung doesn’t need any of the inhaled oxygen. _the m_ As if he could _feel_ his breath on his neck, even though he is still across the room, separated from him by several metres.  
  
Crowley has almost no memories of his time in Heaven, too. He simply wouldn’t use the phrase ‘clouds in his head’. He compares it to his first hangover – that was, before they both knew they could sober up themselves with a small miracle and always should, if they didn’t want to feel this specific phenomenon.  
A fitting comparison, Aziraphale muses. But he prefers not to be reminded of the headaches and the sharp jab in the back of his head when he tries to remember his life with his heavenly partner too much. He knows it happened, because he did not forget the _What_ or _When_ , only the _Who_.  
Hence soft and fluffy clouds are his choice. Even more, because clouds now remind him of delightful flights through the skies with the demon right at his side. Wonderful new memories.  
He remembers wind and hands in his feathers, his own curled sunset always in reach, whenever he opened his eyes.  
This new memory merges so often and easy with those of his time in Heaven, and the face he never sees is suddenly the one of his beloved demon. Everything in him, his human heart and his ethereal essence, rejoice, cry out in glee.  
He doesn’t need any more confirmation about what God is keeping from him.  
  
That’s why he is not worried at all about his heredity enemy standing behind him, creeping towards him with slow, menacing steps. The angel feels misery and gloom originating from him, eternal damnation und demise; it fills their kitchen and crawls into every corner, every slit, devours every shadow and takes them their right to exist. There is no darkness on this Earth that can compete with a demon of Hell, and no light to penetrate it even by a friction.  
Expect maybe for the light of an angel. The darkness sneaks around, but doesn’t dare to touch him, although he knows it could. The angel makes no effort to avoid or dodge the apparent attack, allows himself a smile knowing how his tensed body may look to another angel: Ready for a fight.  
He smiles even broader with the knowledge he is only fighting against his need to turn around and run into the arms of his demon, not caring that he only left him in their bed less than 30 minutes ago.  
But which difference do 30 minutes make in the life of an immortal being who wasted years and years of his existence not spent at the side of the love of his existence? Blinking already seems like a waste of time to him.  
The darkness reaches and floods and drowns him in emotions no one expects in the dark.  
Aziraphales closes his human eyes, which cannot see through dark anyway, and opens his hundreds and hundreds of ethereal ones. When his demon wants to give him this special gift, he wants to be able to enjoy it properly, let every layer melt on his tongue.  
He tastes anger and disappointment first – like a lemony, sour top layer on a cake. He thinks of fondant, just not made from sugar, but rage and ruin.  
On its own a bit too much, but with everything else underneath … right below boils _love, amusement, pride,_ _contentment,_ the thin top layer barely able to keep everything from erupting. The angel can’t think of anything he’s done to deserve this treat. His human body follows his angelic essence, turning towards the source, longing for _everything_ the demon gives him.  
“Crowley”, he murmurs, forgetting his little matutinal project and turning around completely, faster than any human should as he feels the demon right behind him. He pulls him into his arms, wraps his light around him. His wings, too, although on a different level of existence but all the more delicate, enveloped by the demonic form somehow stuffed into their little kitchen[2].  
“My love, why are you awake already?”  
His mouth is right at his ear and his lips brush his lover’s ear with every word, his nose is buried in his hair. He takes a deep breath.  
The angel feels long arms snake around his middle, neither soft nor gentle, but determined and claiming, demanding. His body warmth is a like volcano, magma bubbling and burning inside like Hellfire[3].  
“I heard the bittersweet cry of betrayal”, Crowley answers, his voice muffled because he presses his face into the neck of his angel, “and if there is something I detest it’s disobedience.”  
Aziraphale knows he is not talking to him, or about him. He can feel the golden eyes peering over his shoulder onto the countertop, straight on his project. He can feel the burning, the crushing power, taste the sulphur, and, more important[4], his wings react as if they were flying together through the clouds.  
Of course the demon notices his reaction[5]. Aziraphale doesn’t need to see him to know his face is split by a tooth showing grin and his eyes sparkle with mischief, even though completely different from just a moment before.  
“Oh angel, I can’t have slept more than 20 minutes. And you want to again … mmmh … sssso greedy …”  
Crowley’s voice is soft, a feather in the wind, and his lips on his naked skin are personified temptation – if his whole body shudders now, not only his wings, it’s definitely not only his fault. How is he supposed to resist such a delicious desert?  
He doesn’t answer, lets himself be wholly consumed by the darkness surrounding him, feels _home_ and love, comfort as it does not exist in Heaven.  
“Angel.”  
The same word, the same tone, but a different accusation than the first time. As if demons invented and perfected the art of accusations[6] and never needed more than one single word to convey exactly the right feeling. Aziraphale can taste it in the air – impatience and inner tension. _Arousal._  
“Crowley.”  
What an accusation is for a demon, love is the same for an angel. A gift in one word, wrapped in a beautiful handy box with simple paper and a silk ribbon tied in a bow, soft as a cloud, and glittering as the sea at sunset.  
A word which Aziraphale would gift Crowley over and over again every moment for the rest of their eternal life and only doesn’t because the latter told him he should limit this gift to once a day if he didn’t plan on discorperating him[7].  
The angel takes one of the hands still resting on his back and pulls the demon with him in one fluid motion, taking fully into account his body won’t hide his other present anymore. There are more important things this moment.  
For a short moment, he glances to the plants on the kitchen window sill.  
Crowley probably wasn’t joking when he said he heard the ‘bittersweet cry of betrayal’. His eyes wander back to the new white pot on the countertop, the greenery inside still small, but already radiant and happy, making up the tiniest of spots in its leaves with its cheerfulness. On the contrary, it only deserved more praise for its lush leaves and sporting a flowering shoot already.  
Aziraphale was very proud of his first try of growing a plant, from the seed until now every bit of care without any miracles and it was supposed to continue growing until it met his standards to be an appropriate gift for his lover.  
Said lover though doesn’t react to his pull in the direction of their bedroom right away, even if Aziraphale can feel his burning need to disappear with him again beneath the bed sheets[8]. That Crowley leaves his essence as open and encompassing in their kitchen gives him the special opportunity to look into him, see and understand everything[9].  
“A white orchid?”  
“It’s a gift. For you. But I only wanted to give it to you when it was in full bloom. I didn’t know there would be no secrets or surprises in this house”, he almost pouts, keeps tugging at the hand with long, slender fingers, more determined. The bed won’t warm up on its own.  
Back then, the shop assistant told Aziraphale of the meaning of flowers, their own language. He knew right away he wouldn’t be able to resist this extraordinary form of poetry, even more because it was a language Crowley knew and enjoyed[10].  
His lopsided grin gives away nothing of the bubbling magma underneath, fractions only away from erupting and showering him in a lava stream of love.  
“Oh, _angel_ …”  
If it was possible for his body to melt on the spot and disintegrate into thin air, he would know this very second. He is sure he only stays in his human body and on this level of existence, because his lover is enveloping him entirely, grounding him to the earth.  
Somewhere, deep in his mind, a voice starts chuckling lowly, reminding him, grinning and laughing, of a single word being enough to discoperate one successfully[11].  
Crowley’s golden eyes search for his and _that_ look … Aziraphale swallows, intoxicated from the depths of emotions, and forgets to breath.  
The demon smiles, feels his angel lose his composure, and entwines himself even more around him, keeps him upright, in the Here and Now, while he finally gives into the pull on his hand.  
  


~~  
  
~~  
  
_Although the orchid is available in a wide variety of colours, the meaning remains the same. Only the white orchid has an extended symbolism. It stands for purity and conveys a special elegance and grace._

* * *

  
  
  


[1] Old habit. _Whatever is between them_ has only one name. One word, four letters, and as old as God herself. Love.

[2] Literally stuffed. Not even the complete house with garden would be enough if Crowley decided to have a nice little stretch. But if you were only to think in size, neither the British Isles or all of Europe would be enough. Maybe the planet, if he kept his overly long limbs to himself.

[3] Again literally. Snake or not, in active duty or not, Crowley is first and foremost a demon and demons can only exist with Hellfire burning in them, as every angel is filled with divine light.

[4] And more distracting, if he is being honest. Reacting with carnal pleasure and desire not only to the proximity of a demon, but also to a display of his demonical powers … best not to say it out loud.  
Not that he needed to, for that matter.

[5] Both physical and ethereal.

[6] Which they probably did, now that Aziraphale thinks about it. Accusations and demon were born at the same time, even if Heaven claims something different. On the other hand, both Heaven and Hell have a long history of stealing intelligence from each other in the hope of being ahead of the opposition, taking credit for the success for their side if it was any helpful in leading humanity on the right path of the Great Plan.  
That Heaven would still do so for this specific case makes the whole situation particularly macabre.

[7] A demon can only endure so much love. One time, Crowley told him (jokingly?) Aziraphale was on his best way of turning him back into an angel if he kept him filling up with love like this.  
“What a genius comparison!”, he said afterwards. “Alcohol – solution to all your problems! It’s like drinking six days straight and have another drinking spree on the seventh day, just for the bloody sake of it.”  
What they had done already several times without any lasting harm to the demon. Nevertheless, Aziraphale wasn’t sure if the demon was actually joking, and he really wouldn’t put it to the test.

[8] Not to continue sleeping, mind you.

[9] They found out about this little speciality of their powers by accident. One time, Aziraphale let his thoughts drift too far during an … _explicit_ passage of a book. The innocent demon, sauntering through the door this very same moment as if summoned, didn’t even know what happened to him: his clothes disappeared with a snap and he was devoured by a starving angel. Aziraphale forgot and lost himself in the sounds and emotions pouring out of his lover, his true form welling up more and more with every second, and _oh_ , suddenly he could feel Crowley _everywhere_. Not even the divine love in him could compete with that feeling.

[10] If the already huge garden and the ever growing amount of houseplants were anything to go by.

[11] Crowley definitely wasn’t joking.

* * *


End file.
